


Cheryl Is Not The Answer

by autisticcloudstrife



Category: Silent Hill
Genre: Gen, memories???, self exploration, the fuck do you tag this sort of stuff with
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:08:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autisticcloudstrife/pseuds/autisticcloudstrife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heather's always known something wasn't quite right. She's never been able to put her finger on it. Completely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cheryl Is Not The Answer

**Author's Note:**

> mmmm, drabble exploring thoughts and insecurities that heather might have had about half-memories and the like from the first game. set during the morning of the third game.
> 
> not entirely happy with it, but here we go!

_who is that looking back in the mirror?_

Sick, pale skin smattered with freckles, oily on all the wrong days. Dark brown eyes that had long ago lost their shine (and at such a  _young_  age) with sore red rimming her lids and black and blue staining rings of exhaustion beneath. Cracked, dry, pale lips and acne still breaking out in the creases of her skin. Hair like straw, limp and frail and burned with bleach one too many times. 

Heather was by no means a perfect girl. Or even within the constraints of typical beauty.

Sometimes she looked in the mirror (the one in her room that she always kept covered) and asked herself that question quietly under her breath, voice cracking and raspy with the damage of tobacco, one too many throat infections, raising her voice in anger as a force of habit.

The mirror was wrong.

She didn't know this freckled skin, these dark eyes that never got enough sleep, these pierced ears or these half-full, almost-smiling lips. Solid limbs, full breasts, dipped waist, wide hips, none of these fit right.

Eyes too narrow.

Body too heavy.

The mirror was _wrong_.

Heather wasn't exactly sure when she realised this, either. That was another frustrating point to the mix. It wasn't that these things weren't  _nice_ \- she liked them well enough. Boys liked them well enough, too. (pity she didn't like them back; and if she was good at anything it was being vocal. 

They just weren't her. 

They just weren't  _Cheryl_.

( _where did that come from?_ )

Sometimes she stripped right down to her underwear to get a good look at everything. Too much flesh where there shouldn't be much. Stretchmarks darting white between her freckles over her hips and chest and toward her back. Cuts and grazes and scars collected over the years from childish clumsiness and plain stupidity.

Clumsy, long fingers and knobby wrists that she hid with wristbands. A waist and breasts both too mature to be comfortable that she hid under puffy rain-vests and baggy hoodies. The only change she really appreciated was the bleach to her hair, because it went with her skin, with her freckles, with what she was now.

She avoided mirrors because they reminded her of things she  _didn't remember_ ; everything was a goddamn comparison.

( _and most upsetting of all, she didn't know what she was comparing to_

_and she was sure that there was something_

_because sometimes her **father** did it too_

_even if he didn't realise it_ )

She spent a good hour or more like this in front of the mirror sometimes. Looking herself over, critisizing imperfections like any teenager would, poking and prodding at what was there and how it looked. And cursing them all.

Occasionally these sessions would end in tears. She'd hole up in her room and play her music so loudly the neighbours would complain. Her father would try to compensate for it, calming the other tenants with promises to fix it, before coming to her with gentle words that never helped. 

But more often than not she would just end up sat on the floor. Knees pulled to her chest. Chin resting on them. Time spent glowering at herself and wondering what had struck her _this time_  to pull up the sheet normally covering the mirror.

This was one of those times, in nothing but a pair of boardshorts and her bra. Red marks were cut into her shoulders (she'd been meaning to get a new bra for weeks now) and the legs of her shorts hung loose around her thighs. Of course she had cosmetic worries (she was not immune to the world of advertising and social opinion) but at times like this, things were more pressing. 

**_who is that looking back in the mirror?_ **

Eventually twelve noon came and there was a quiet knock on the door. The door cracked open when she failed to respond at all and the older man poked his head in through the door, brow creased with worry. 

"You didn't come to breakfast, dear," he murmured, pushing the door wide open. Not often did he intrude on his daughter's privacy, but this was different. It felt different. He walked in and cautiously lowered himself down to sit next to her with a grunt.

( _harry had a lot of scars himself but they had a different feel to hers_

_cuts and scrapes and stitches and burns and **god knows** what else_

_he never talked about them_

_she'd learned to stop asking_ )

"Wasn't hungry," came the flat response. A stong, bare arm came to lie around her shoulders before he spoke again. Harry was good at these things; he was a good father. Things had been rocky for a time, but now they'd smoothed out. Thankfully. 

( _she'd always been a rebellious little girl_

_sometimes he'd get frustrated but he'd try to never raise his voice_

_something had always seemed wrong when she was little_

_but_ ) 

"Well, why don't you come out and eat some lunch?"

He looked at her in the mirror with that familiar, fatherly smile he wore so often. Surely he'd wear it out one day, and then where would he be? His eyes crinkled at the corners when he grinned (not quite in the way hers did) and his patience was seemingly endless. Sometimes that was frustrating too.

"I was gonna head to the mall," she mumbled back, shrugging a little as his hand gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Probably just grab a burger there or something." And she stood up, turning on her heel. She glanced over her shoulder as she headed for her dresser. "Did you want to come?"

Harry pushed himself to his feet (he was getting far too old for this, limbs stiff and scars aching) and turned to her. "Oh, actually- no, honey, I'm sorry. I've got quite a chunk of work to do today." Rough hands gently took the sheet on her mirror and pulled it back down, so the reflective surface was covered again. "But there is something I'd like you to get while you're out, if you didn't mind."

"Sure, dad. What did you want?"

( _adopted or not_

 _she would always be his little girl_ )


End file.
